


The Powerful

by westernsunset



Category: Tortall - Tamora Pierce
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-21
Updated: 2018-06-21
Packaged: 2019-05-26 12:06:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15000533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/westernsunset/pseuds/westernsunset
Summary: Zahir and King Jonathan visit a hostile tribe in the east of the desert.—Written for Goldenlake’s Christmas in June based on a prompt from the wonderful devilinthedetails!





	The Powerful

“Squire were you aware of an unincorporated tribe in the East of the desert?”

“Unincorporated?” Zahir usually didn’t admit when he didn’t know what a word meant but after a year as King Jonathan’s squire, he’d learned that it was better to understand everything than it was to seem smart. The King expected everyone to understand him and act accordingly, which meant he was more than willing to explain new words and concepts if people needed.

“It means they’re not part of the larger Bazhir society. They don’t trade with you, they don’t participate in major cultural rituals and most importantly, they don’t participate in the ceremony of the Voice.”

Zahir had heard of that. “You mean the people of the Eastern Shore?”

“Is that the tribe’s name?”

“No sire, that’s just what we call them. They’re not Bazhir. Not really. They look like us, and they live close by but they’ve never been part of the nation.”

“Tell me more.”

Zahir shifted. He didn’t know much about the people, but he’d heard enough about them from his father and grandfather. “The people of the Eastern Shore have always lived differently than the Bazhir. We are a nomadic culture, often moving around the desert like the wind. But the people of the Eastern Shore stay put. They don’t fish or make a living off the ocean, so there’s no real reason for them to be out there. But all attempts from other tribes to draw them in have been met with distrust and violence so the Council of Headmen made the decision to leave them alone centuries ago.”

The King took in everything Zahir was saying. When it was clear Zahir had finished, King Jonathan stood. “I think it’s time we pay them a visit.”

Zahir bit his lip. He would’ve told the King it was a bad idea, but if there was one thing his knightmaster had taught him, it was to not make pronouncements about people based on rumor. But surely the King didn’t mean he should let him walk into danger? Zahir weighed his options quickly but ultimately couldn’t keep quiet.

“Sire, I don’t mean to question your judgement but—“

“But you have questions about my decision?” Jon finished, a smile in his eyes.

“The people of the Eastern Shore have lived on their own for centuries. They’re not like us, they don’t see the same benefits of society. Tribes have tried to make them like us, like the civilized Bazhir, but it just doesn’t take. We decided long ago to leave them alone. What are you hoping to gain?”

“It’s always important for a King to meet his subjects.”

The way his knightmaster said it, Zahir knew the subject was closed, so he bowed and said “when should I be ready?”

—

Several weeks later (royal planning took time) King Jonathan, Zahir and a company of armed guards, clerks, and Jon’s trusted advisor Gary rode out to the Eastern Desert. The deeper they traveled into the desert, the more Zahir felt the weight lift from his shoulders. In Corus, he felt hyper-aware of everyone’s eyes on him, seeing how a new Bazhir noble would stack up against the oldest families in the realm. 

When he first got to the palace for page training, he’d been exhausted. Not just because of the physical work, though that was not easy. But just getting through the day was exhausting for him. A new language, new customs, new ways of eating. He remembered the first time he ate a meal with everyone else. He was so confused when he picked up his food. There was no bread to eat his meal with. He’d been given a spoon and fork instead, implements he’d never seen before. His whole village ate with their hands, or drank straight from the bowl. When he tried to drink the chunky soup straight from the bowl his first night, he’d endured sneers from the other pages. After that, he’d always copied the eating habits of an older page, until the way of eating became more natural.

And every day was filled with hundreds of little moments like that. Zahir spent the first year stumbling through a new culture. And as the only Bazhir page, he had no one to talk to about it. So going home to the desert allowed him to relax. He didn’t have to guess at the social norms here. Even traveling with the King didn’t make him nervous. This was his home and he knew how to behave here.

But as they got closer to the shore, Zahir started to feel like someone was watching. He couldn’t see anyone, but his skin prickled with the sensation of eyes tracking his movement. Several times, he thought he saw a shadow ducking out of view when he turned but he couldn’t see anything conclusive. Of course he told the King who assured Zahir he’d noticed it too, but he didn’t think it was anything to worry about.

Finally, after days of riding and as the approached the eastern shore, they started to see temporary tents set up in small clusters. Occasionally, they saw a man look up from tending a small fire, or children peeking curiously around rocks but no one came out to talk to them or see what they were doing. Zahir wasn’t even sure these people knew what King Jonathan looked like. 

When the group approached a slightly larger grouping of tents, the King gave the signal to halt. There were three men talking in a tight circle near the center of the encampment, and King Jonathan dismounted to approach them.

“Hello,” the King said, polite but powerful. “I am King Jonathan, ruler of Tortall and Voice of the Tribes. I request an audience with your headman.”

“Then you’ve come to the wrong place,” said one of the men, turning only slightly to face the King. “For we do not recognize a king, nor the Voice, nor a headman. We are each responsible only for ourselves and our families, no one above or below us.”

The King was not fazed. “How many people are there in this camp?”

“It does not matter,” said a second man in a thick accent.

“Why doesn’t it matter?” said the King.

“He means it is none of your business,” said the first man.

Zahir started to fidget in his saddle. This was not going well at all, as he’d suspected. His movement caught the eye of the first man.

“You there,” he called in the Bazhir language. “You should know better than to bring a white king of the north to us. Does he not know?”

Zahir knew a headman when he saw one. Despite the assertion that everyone was out for themselves, it was clear that the first man was a respected leader in the tribe, and would probably be the one to speak with the King. 

King Jonathan looked back at Zahir, clearly expecting him to translate. Something in Zahir’s gut told him this wasn’t the moment to provide a full translation. Or to share his knowledge of this man’s station.

“Sire, they want to know why I’ve brought you here.”

The King turned to face the men. “I am a king of the entire realm. It’s in my best interest to connect with all the people I serve.”

The third man, who up to this point hadn’t spoken, spat on the ground and swore in the Bazhir tongue. Zahir tried to keep his face blank, afraid his knightmaster would ask him to translate again.

“We are not your subjects,” the first man said coldly, holding the King’s gaze. “You are welcome to travel here, as anyone is, but an attempt to make us your subjects, to make this land yours, will be met with resistance. You can ask your servant. We fought off the Bazhir before and we will do the same to you.”

King Jonathan squared his shoulders. “Zahir is my squire, not my servant and I ask you treat him with more respect.”

“Squire to the Northern King?” the third man said to Zahir in the Bazhir language, contempt in his voice. “Does your family know how you’ve betrayed them?”

Zahir didn’t say anything, but the words stung. His father, headman of the Sleeping Lions, had been ennobled by the King, and was proud to have his son training to be a knight of the realm. But that feeling wasn’t shared by everyone in his tribe. When he returned home, there were too many whispered accusations of his treachery, cold looks, and angry mutters. Zahir knew his father would punish people who insulted his son, but he also knew his father would be disappointed if Zahir couldn’t fight his own battles, weather his own storms. So he bore the insults with what he hoped was a quiet dignity, but it didn’t make them any easier to hear. 

The King looked back at Zahir again, worry flitting in his eyes. Zahir clenched his horse’s reins. He didn’t want to rely on the King to fight his battles. A combination of pride, and a nagging sense that he didn’t have what it took to be a knight made him uneasy with the King in the best of times, not wanting to rely on him, or anyone. To tell the King that not only had his orders been ignored, but that Zahir was facing insults would be to create a situation he wasn’t prepared to deal with.

Instead, Zahir sat as tall as he could, and channeled the air of nobility he had as a headman’s son. In his mother tongue, he said “our people did not ask to be ruled by a king. But after many years of war, we were forced into an empire. I have more of a chance to fight for my people from within the realm than outside of it.”

“You’re a coward,” said the first man.

“Your society is dying,” Zahir shot back. “How long do you think you’ll be able to go on like this? You know as well as I do that you’re outmanned. Even a short war would wipe you off the map. For the good of your people, you must swallow your pride.” 

For a moment, the headman’s face twisted in anger. But he knew Zahir was right. Zahir could see it. Like any great leader, the headman realized that what was best for his people wasn’t always the easy route, or the route he wanted to take. After a deep breath, the first man turned to the King.

“I am Aderfi Meddur, one of the leaders of the Izemrasen, or people of the eastern shore. We may have the audience you desire. Please follow me to our main camp.” With that, Aderfi set off on foot, not bothering to wait until the King mounted up.

As they rode through the sand, King Jonathan turned to his squire. “An impressive bit of diplomacy squire. What did you tell him?”

“I told him to think of his people and do what is best for them,” Zahir said.

They rode a bit in silence. Finally, “Squire, you have to know I can speak the Bazhir language. Or did you forget?”

Zahir’s dark cheeks reddened. “I didn’t--”

“I admire your reasons for knighthood,” the King said, anticipating Zahir’s defense. “You’re right to want to fight for your people in a realm they never wanted to be a part of. I hope one day you’ll also want to defend a realm you call home.”

Zahir nodded. In his heart, he knew it would be a long time before he thought of home as anything other than the Southern Desert. But that didn’t mean he would feel that way forever. If the people of the eastern shore--the Izemrasen, as he now knew they were called--could change after so much time, maybe he could too.

**Author's Note:**

> This is somewhat based on the Western Sahara, a quasi-independent nation just below Morocco. Morocco claims ownership of the Western Sahara and there's basically been fighting there since the beginning of Morocco's history as a nation (even before technically). I used some Amazhigh names in the story (a nomadic people in North Africa formerly known as the Berber). Aderfi means free, Meddur means alive and Izemrasen means powerful.
> 
> —
> 
> Find me on tumblr I’m westernsunset there too!


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